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We finish our breakfast, then put our dishes in the sink and clean the kitchen together, a rhythm we have down after many mornings like this one.
“Mind if I join you on your walk to the perfumery? I’d love some fresh air,” Dad says once I’ve put the last dish away.
“I’d like that.”
When I open the front door, I jump back at the sight of a blossom on the doorstep. I frantically scan the lawn for the moonflower from last night, but there’s nothing. I bend over to pick up the flower, a single rose with a handwritten note attached.
I saw this rose in thegarden this morning—the same color as your dress. Thank youfor the dances.
—Landon
My heart stops racing, and I smile to myself and hold the rose close to my face, inhaling deeply.
“What’s that?” Dad asks, and I turn and hand him the flower. The same relieved expression I saw on Ivy’s face at the ball last night settles over my dad now as he reads the note.
“I wonder how he got it here,” I say, walking back into the house and filling a small vase with water. Dad cuts the stem before putting the rose in, and we leave the house together.
“He’s the governor’s son; I imagine he had plenty of options for how to get it here.”
Dad automatically takes the long route to the perfumery, walking along the beach so I can get my fix of the water. I scan the surface for flowers, but it’s a foggy morning, and I can see only a couple of yards past the shoreline.
The thick fog follows us as we turn onto Main Street and walk down the cobblestone road. The coffee shops, tea rooms, and bakeries are all bustling with morning crowds, but we open the perfumery later on Sundays. Especially in the winter, it’s nice to have some daylight to ourselves before work begins. Otherwise we’d lose all our magic hours to the shop.
I put the key in the door and turn on the lights. Dad follows and helps me get set up before heading back out.
“What are you up to today?” I ask.
“We’re low on lavender and sandalwood. I’m going to the fields, then the cottage to extract oil. I’ll be back later today to refill our stock.”
“Happy hunting,” I say, and Dad smiles before kissing me on the top of my head and leaving.
There’s a steady flow of customers throughout the day,and I’m surprised by how many of them ask me about Landon. Thankfully, my mother arrives an hour after opening and steps in, giving me a much-needed respite.
I watch in amazement as she answers smoothly, always with the perfect amount of mystery. She doesn’t trip over her words or look at the floor when she speaks. She knows the right thing to say in every situation and has no desire to run from the shop and dive into the sea.
On some days, it makes me feel like something’s wrong with me, this overwhelming frustration that I can’t do what my mother and Ivy seem to do with such ease. But today I’m thankful for it.
For her.
At six o’clock sharp, we lock the door and switch our sign toCLOSED. It’s a full moon tonight, and we have to get ready for the rush. The tourists make their way to the docks, catching the last boat out.
Only witches are allowed on the island when we drain our excess magic into the ocean.
The one problem with low magic is that it leaves a buildup of unused power in our bodies that we aren’t meant to carry. If it isn’t expelled, it can kill us. So roughly every twenty-nine days, on the full moon, we shut down the island and rush our leftover magic into the sea.
It is, ironically, the most powerful spell we do, and the only one that is allowed at night.
It’s a raw, forceful display of magic that would terrify the mainlanders if they saw it, and as such, it’s become something thecoven is ashamed of, a taboo ritual they’d give anything not to have to participate in.
Which is why it isn’t talked about. We don’t mention the rush leading up to it, and we don’t talk about it for the following twenty-nine days.
I think that’s what bothers me most about it—we’re ruining our island and harming our sea creatures and killing our crops for a ritual the witcheshate.
I’ve never said it aloud, but I look forward to the rush. I feel powerful when that kind of magic is flowing through me. I don’t feel ashamed or disgusted—I feel alive, connected to my magic in a way I can’t replicate in the shop. I only wish I could use all that power for something good instead of casting it into the sea, where it will continue its violent tear through the water.
“All set, Tana?” my mother asks.
I nod and grab my bag, following her out of the shop. The fog has cleared, and a light drizzle is tapping the island, making the cobblestones slick and the shrubs heavy. The moss that lines the rooftops somehow looks greener in the rain, and I inhale the perfect scent of petrichor.
